You Married a Writer.
You married a writer, and I’m I sorry.
I crawl inside of myself and spin out a fine web of words that—I think—make you wonder where they were, as I was passionately arguing with you instead.
I feel the way that my turquoise ring slips on my finger, as I write this.
I hear the children yelling—our daughter is, literally, shouting a song into my ear as I drip these words through my turquoise-covered fingers.
I don’t miss a word of what you say, but I often feel like you miss mine, until they are printed and in front of you, and even then.
You married a writer, and I’m sorry.
I hole up in our bedroom, in bed; tippy-typing away as frequently as I can—which is not often enough lately, with our growing family.
When writing, I ignore your requests to do normal “mother” things, like change a diaper. I tell you that I’m in here, and I tap the side of my head with my turquoise-laden finger.
You married a writer, and I’m sorry.
I’m sorry that I’m not sorry.
Because you love me, as I am.
You married a writer, and 21 years ago just yesterday you stole my heart.
I think I’ve stolen yours a few times too—and I’m nearly positive that it’s this part of me that is always—slightly—somewhere else, and tip-toeing in vast, flowered fields of my own creation, that have granted your love for me.
I married someone who loves a writer—thank God.
Photo: Flickr/Writing? Yeah.
